


the notebook

by days4daisy



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-08-27 23:21:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16711945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: The task occupying Krennic’s attention at the moment is one Cassian has not seen in some time. Krennic is writing. By hand. On paper.





	the notebook

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Artemis1000](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artemis1000/gifts).



> It was lovely to write for you, Artemis1000! Hope you enjoy this :)

Cassian's cover may be blown. But how?

He wracks his brain, a catalogue of calculated maneuvers, cues, signs, and gestures. Before this morning, Cassian's identity never came into question. Where was his misstep, or was it chance?

It cannot be a breach. Draven is the only one with knowledge of Cassian’s location. If Imperial forces were to capture Draven, it would mean infiltration of the entire command base on Yavin. News of such an Imperial victory would be easily detected even from Cassian’s post.

Or, perhaps Cassian has not been discovered. Maybe the problem lies with his mark.

Director Krennic is quiet today. As full of bluster as the Death Star’s lead is, silence is not unusual for Krennic. He is a man of great impatience and self-importance, a man with too many aspirations and too little time. Krennic’s work consumes his days, though the source of his fire remains a mystery to Cassian. He does not seem to enjoy what he does or the accolades given by his peers. Krennic often makes off-color jokes about the superiors whose favor he should covet. Particularly Tarkin, whom Krennic loathes with an impressive level of zest.

Krennic announces himself every morning with a burst of immediacy. Time matters to Orson Krennic. If it does not matter to those under his command, the unfortunate officers are replaced with haste.

But today’s odd brooding weighs Krennic’s steps and slumps his normally proud posture. Even his trademark cape does not seem to billow with its usual gusto. This morning, the director greets Cassian quietly and does not assign a single task. Not even one as mundane as checking food stock or completing a perimeter scan of their quadrant.

Perhaps the director is ill, but he does not display any outward signs of sickness. A headache is possible; though never debilitating, Krennic does suffer from chronic migraines. Cassian has happened on the director in this state more than once, Krennic's impatient fingers jammed to his temples.

Cassian clears his throat. “Is everything alright, sir?”

Krennic blinks at his own hands, then at Cassian. With some surprise, Cassian realizes the always-mindful director was, until now, unaware of his lingering presence. “Yes.” Krennic returns quickly to his work. Jarringly, he adds a mumbled, “Thank you, Moors.”

The task occupying Krennic’s attention is one Cassian has not seen in some time. Krennic is writing. By hand. On paper. Some still keep handwritten notes on both sides of the war effort, seeking privacy in non-digital files. A thief can steal a book from a desk, but a hacker cannot patch into hand-written notes from light years away. Krennic has never seemed the type though, a data pad always on his person.

Cassian occupies himself at a neighboring console with a routine monitors check. He steals occasional looks, but Krennic never acknowledges his attention. His hand continues its scrape of pen across blank pages. Now and then, he pauses, a familiar narrowed pinch to his features as he thinks.

More support staff filter into the room. With no direction, they occupy themselves as frivolously as Cassian. Alarm systems check, border scan, delivery manifest. Cassian’s curiosity is not the only one turned towards Krennic. It does not take a trained intelligence operative to know something is unusual today.

In one standard hour, the door to the control room opens. Two white-armored Stormtroopers enter, and between them lurks the tall, rare presence of Governor Tarkin. Cassian frowns. Tarkin is not scheduled to be on-site for another week. Something must have happened. An escalation of the project timeline? Or is something wrong?

The governor's eyes beeline to Krennic. His trim face is at once grim and tickled. “Director,” he says, exaggerated, _die_ -rector.

Krennic rises and closes his notebook. Nothing is said in return, not even a sneer, a sure bet from Krennic whenever Tarkin is present. The personnel present gawk at the scene. A moment later, they are gone, and the room returns to its normal buzz. A few whispers reach Cassian’s ear - curious murmurs and short coughs of laughter.

Cassian eyes the notebook left behind on the table. Krennic may be many things, but he never lacks discretion. He is far too self-important, far too absorbed with his own status, to leave even frivolous notes behind unintentionally.

Cassian checks the tracker on his data pad. One standard hour becomes two. The busy bees hover inside the room, close enough that Cassian cannot steal the notebook for a quick scan.

At 2.5 standard hours, the door to the control room slides open. The director looks to have aged years in hours, a haggard pallor to his drawn face.

“Moors,” he says, eyes on Cassian. “With me. Grab my notes on your way out." Cassian rushes to comply. He scoops up the notebook and hurries to catch up with the director.

Cassian cannot remember the last time he held a bound paper book. When he was a child? Past targets have, at times, kept paper scribes, but Cassian has not needed them. His Imperial targets had enough data stores available to Cassian’s hacking.

Those individuals paled in comparison to Krennic. He is the director of the deadliest project in the history of the universe. The man with a finger on the trigger. What hubris,  to name a project “The Death Star”! Krennic is infuriating and fascinating. Well-trained as Cassian is, he still struggles to crack the psyche of a man with such a dour demeanor and unfathomable dreams.

The notebook burns hot as a brand against Cassian’s chest. His fingers itch to open it, and Krennic must know. Odd. For all Krennic’s political gamesmanship, he is not one to amuse himself with this type of tease. As a private, Cassian’s alias Moors is far beneath the director’s status and, thus, interest. A game like this should be a waste in Krennic’s mind.

Unless Krennic does suspect Cassian after all.

“Our detail has prepared a shuttle, private. We will be making an overnight stop on Coruscant. Provisions are on board. I’m afraid there won’t be time to pack your own personals.”

Cassian cannot recall any pressing engagement requiring Krennic’s appearance on Coruscant. He has the director’s comings and goings committed to memory. Krennic’s next round on any surface was to be next week. An inspection of one of the kyber mining operations on Jedha Moon. The meeting with Tarkin must be behind this change of plans. But why Coruscant? Few remaining in that sector have knowledge of the weapon, and those stationed on-world have credentials to make their own trip to the construction site.

“Of course, sir,” Cassian says - quiet, lacking inflection. Nothing to give the director pause.

The trip to Coruscant is uneventful. Their party consists of Krennic, himself, two pilots, and a pair of Stormtroopers. Cassian squeezes Krennic’s notebook to his chest. Strange that the director has not relieved him of it on board. Krennic sits across from him. Though the director’s attention strays, it never drifts far enough for Cassian to risk a look at his notes.

To pass the time, Cassian runs through potential escape scenarios should this trip prove to be a trap. Given Krennic’s ruthlessness, Cassian could be holding testimony on his own true Rebel identity. Cassian cannot put anything past Orson Krennic. He knew the level of his target when he accepted Draven’s assignment. The ingenuity of Krennic's cruelty still impresses Cassian daily.

Draven was as wary of the director as Cassian. This is why no other Rebel leader, not even Mon Mothma, knows Cassian’s true whereabouts. There can be no line back to Yavin if the Empire discovers Cassian. If he goes down, he will do so alone. Cassian knew this when he said yes to Draven’s order in the middle of the night. This is a mission worth dying for, and Cassian will do so if necessary.

Cassian expects their destination to be the Core of Engineers. It is a cover site for activities related to the Death Star’s design and impending operations. Krennic himself assumed command of the project under false cover as a member of the Core. His rise from architect to lead of the universe’s most terrifying weapon remains a marvel. Krennic has no military background. A promotion of such a scale should be impossible even for the most adept social climber. Krennic impresses Cassian and disgusts him in equal measure.

Cassian is surprised to find their destination on the other end of Coruscant’s sprawling metropolis. Buildings reach to the clouds, and cruisers glint under a sea-blue sky.

Cassian allows his puzzlement to show when they reach the steps of Coruscant’s opera house. The structure is an homage to a past era. It bears marble steps and obsidian columns tipped with gold arrows. It is a theatrical design, playful, meant to draw the eye.

Krennic is uncharacteristically subdued as he takes in the opera house. “A favorite of mine,” he says. Cassian cannot tell if the words are an invitation to speak, so he remains silent. From his research, he remembers the opera house to be one of Krennic’s architectural projects prior to assuming command of the Death Star. “Tell me, Moors, what are your dreams? What do you want from life?”

An odd test, but it is not out of scope for Krennic to bait his charges with abrupt questions. Cassian masks his suspicion with a smile. “To continue to improve myself, sir, for the betterment of the Empire.” It seems a safe answer, one any idealistic young officer in the Imperial ranks would recite.

Krennic’s thin mouth turns downward. With a cleared throat, he straightens his posture. “Admirable, private,” he says. “You’re everything the Empire could want.” There is a bitter note to Krennic’s words. It is not out of place exactly; the director has a habit of speaking down to Cassian’s alter ego. Krennic is proud of his rise to power, and it pleases him to flaunt his own mastery in the face of others.

But this line of conversation feels different. There is a troubled heaviness to Krennic’s voice that Cassian does not expect. Or is weariness the weight Cassian feels in Krennic’s words?

“Are you sure you’re alright, sir?” With their Stormtrooper detail dismissed and their pilots waiting with the ship, now seems the best time to ask. What risk is there, other than inciting Krennic’s ire? All in Krennic’s employ risk the director’s displeasure at any time for any reason.

Cassian does not trust the smile Krennic gives him. The director rarely smiles, beyond hearing news of the Death Star’s latest developments. Never like this slender, humorless line. “I have an engagement inside,” Krennic says. “But I have laid out instructions to be heeded upon your arrival at the Core of Engineers. I will meet you there upon my conclusion of business.”

Cassian frowns. “Is it wise for you to be without an escort?”

What sort of engagement would bring Krennic to an opera house of all places? Is there a shadier deal in the making, one that cannot be struck anywhere near an Imperial facility?

Or is there a chance Krennic will be alone? Is now Cassian’s chance to close this assignment ahead of schedule? He would make the elimination attempt at great peril, but when will an opportunity like this present itself again?

No, there is more Cassian needs to understand. So much does not make sense. Cassian is not ready.

“You’re a good officer, Moors.” Krennic puts out his hand. “Thank you."

Confused, Cassian takes it. “Sir?”

“Reconvene with our travel party at the Core and follow my instructions.” With Krennic’s curt nod, their discussion is over. Cassian returns the motion, short and choppy. He stands at attention as Krennic scales the opera house stairs. His hands squeeze around Krennic’s notebook.

The Core of Engineers is a 30 minute walk without hailing a cruiser-shuttle. Cassian waits until he is five minutes and six blocks down to begin reading.

 _Moors,_ the first page of the notebook begins. This is not a general order, then, but a directive intended for Cassian’s alias alone.

_Upon your return to the Core, engage with Lieutenant Hamir and her squadron along the left wing. You are to inform the lieutenant that there has been an incident at the opera house and to send a search party. Alert her of blaster fire. If Hamir questions my whereabouts, inform her that my present location is unknown._

_If our separation becomes suspect, inform Hamir that you were ordered by me to return to the COE. I had business of my own to attend to and required no escort. When the commotion began, you doubled your pace to the COE for back-up._

_Dispose of these notes before your meeting with the lieutenant. There is a garbage chute in the northwest corridor. Follow signs for Room 009ZB. At midday, this section of the building will be void of patrons. Low traffic has yielded minimal security coverage._

_I regret leaving this task to you, Moors, but you have proven yourself a capable officer. You will understand the need for discretion in times like these. Thank you for your service._

The note is not signed, nor is any other page in the book marked. Cassian braces the open pages against the chest of his Imperial uniform.

He understands the tenor of the note, yet it is too perplexing to be what it reads like. Krennic is a prideful man. He is not one to release his claim on glory, not when it is so close.

Cassian doubles his strides back the direction of the opera house. He pauses only to discard the notebook in a trash chute on a street corner. Whatever Cassian will walk in on, it seems best not to have any evidence of the director’s odd plan in his possession.

Cassian jogs up marble steps leading to the extravagant, columned entrance. The doors are tall and black as lava rock. The center door sits ajar, and Cassian edges his way inside without disturbing it further.

The floor of the main hall gleams under candelabras suspended from the ceiling. Cassian softens his tread; the boots of an Imperial officer are not made for stealth. It is too bright and open in this room. Cassian feels exposed as a naked man under twin suns.

A series of tall doors stand like sentries at the far end of the hall. They are wooden, a rarity for design on Coruscant. Krennic’s design speaks to a wistfulness for days long past. Yet another detail about the man to frustrate and tantalize. Why would Krennic, with his hunger for a new age, reflect such yearning for yesterday in his designs?

Krennic’s nuances anger and fascinate Cassian.

None of the doors leading to the auditorium are open. Cassian chooses the center. It is a weaker position, but marching down the middle is plausible for his young, naive Private Moors. What danger would a bright-eyed officer expect in this place? He is on Coruscant, an Imperial stronghold. Private Moors has nothing to fear, even with his superior’s curious note.

The auditorium’s lights are dim, a contrast to the pearly blare of the outer entrance hall. Cassian enters in the center aisle of the orchestra. Balconies hover along the outer rim of the stage. A grand, white curtain shrouds a stage of black wood. The floors are cabernet red, matching gold-threaded red walls.

The director stands before the stage. His back is to Cassian as he sips from a tumbler. Scotch, by the color. At social calls, the director favors the driest available red wine, but Cassian has spied aged scotch in Krennic’s office. It seems to be the director’s drink of choice when left to his own devices.

The stage is the delta point of three long, red aisles. Cassian stands in the center row. On either side, nearing the stage, approach two Death Troopers in full black uniform. Their blasters are drawn, aimed not at Cassian but at the director who leads them.

Instinct takes over. Crouched low and at short range, Cassian’s work is simple. His blaster fire hits both troopers in the spine. Sparks explode off their reinforced uniforms. Their suits are stronger, but not enough to repel the low range contact. Both soldiers crumble to the floor.

From the stage, Krennic betrays only the slightest flinch. The momentary tension in his shoulders squares out quickly, and he looks at Cassian with pity. “I suppose I can’t blame you for your curiosity. It’s a trait I share as well.”

“What is this?” Cassian asks as Moors, and as himself.

Krennic’s sigh is oddly fond. He approaches Cassian, his own blaster in hand. Cassian fixes on it, and he begins to aim.

He lowers his weapon, confused, when Krennic offers his own pistol freely. Without waiting, Krennic snatches the weapon from Cassian’s grasp. Cassian, beyond any reason he can fathom, _allows_ Krennic to do so. He gapes at the director’s weapon placed in his hands.

Krennic begins a methodical cleaning of Cassian’s blaster with a handkerchief. He wipes the weapon with slow, tender strokes; the hilt, the barrel, the trigger. “Take that to the Core,” Krennic says, nodding at his own weapon in Cassian’s hands. “Tell Lieutenant Hamir that there has been an incident at the opera house. You lost your blaster in the melee-”

“What are you talking about?”

“You took - wait, no, they’ll see through that.” Krennic regards Cassian with interest. “You found this blaster in the ensuing chaos. You believe it to be mine but will need an inventory scan to verify.” Krennic meets Cassian’s eyes. There is something in them that makes no sense. Something soft and pleased. “Yes, that should work. Go on now, Moors. That’s an order.”

Cassian frowns - at his words, at Krennic's odd expression, at a master plan that was set in motion with Cassian none the wiser. “They were going to shoot you.” Cassian feels off-balance, and the words stumble out. This behavior is not in any of Cassian’s case files. Cassian does not understand. In his line of work, lack of understanding cannot happen.

Krennic’s smile is tight-lipped and resolute. “Go. You’ll have more than enough time to-”

“No,” Cassian says. Emotion that he normally conceals so expertly froths to the surface. Did Draven know about this? All this time spent as Krennic’s personal aide, and whatever this is still went over Cassian’s head?

Krennic sighs. “I should have known. I assumed, of course, but…” Cassian startles at the crisp, gloved hand on his cheek. The garment is cold leather, and Krennic's hand is all bone beneath. Krennic speaks slowly, as if counseling a child. “Now is not the time to be a hero,” he says. “You cannot be here, Moors, do you understand?”

Fuming, Cassian shakes his head. Krennic closes his eyes, a mumbled curse under his breath.

The director is faster than Cassian would have given him credit for. In a blink, the blaster Krennic cleaned is pointed at Cassian’s chest. Cassian, on instinct, draws as well, barrel pointed at Krennic’s stomach.

“Go,” Krennic says. “I won’t tell you again.”

“Why do they want to do this?” Cassian demands.

Krennic shakes his head wryly. “You’re a smart boy. You already know the answer to that question.” Cassian’s eyes twitch wider.

His decision is rash, made on gut instinct. Krennic is surprisingly agile, but he lacks Cassian’s training and youth. Once Krennic is on the ground, it only takes one crack of the blaster against his brow to fell him. He is out, good for a lack of struggle but not for the body weight. Cassian has limited time and options. He can only think of one place.

***

When Krennic wakes, the last of Coruscant’s sun is fading into a sea of pinks and reds. Krennic grimaces and tests the welt on his temple. It is swollen, crusted in blood but dry. His smile is edged and displeased. “You’ve made a terrible mistake,” he says.

The safehouse is an old apartment with furniture long past its style or usefulness. Krennic is propped on a pillow, vaunted cape removed and draped across the back of a loveseat. Cassian sits on the other side of the bed. He trains the director’s own blaster at him.

Krennic chuckles. “We both know you won’t do that, and I’m not going anywhere for the time being. You may as well spare your fingers the effort.” Cassian does not move the blaster. Krennic closes his eyes and swallows. “What is this place, Moors?”

“Are you part of the Rebellion?” Cassian asks.

For whatever reason, Krennic finds this funny. He barks a laugh and turns a crooked smile on Cassian. “My, my. Quite the brazen question,” he says.

It is enough of an answer.

Even with the evidence now screaming in Cassian’s face, the response still sends him reeling. “Why do it quietly?” Cassian asks. “Why not string up a traitor for the whole Empire to see?” He does not expect an answer, stubborn as Krennic has proven himself to be time and time again.

Krennic regards Cassian with a thoughtfulness that catches Cassian off-guard. “Are you old enough to remember peace, Moors? No - all you know is war, I can see it on you. For what it’s worth,” he sighs and shifts on the bedsheets, “it was not my intention to drag you into all this. Timing was a bit short, as you can imagine. And - selfishly, I’ve always been proud of that damn opera house. I wondered if I would still favor it after all these years.”

None of this makes any sense.

Cassian tightens an unsteady finger on the trigger. “Did you?” The question hisses under his breath.

“More, actually.” Krennic turns towards the window, and Cassian lowers the blaster. It remains in his lap though, finger crooked on the trigger. By Krennic’s smile, he knows.

“We’re getting out of here,” Cassian tells him.

Krennic’s laugh rasps. “I feel for you, I truly do.” The fading sun reflects off his face, filling in lines and glinting in narrowed eyes. “You didn’t get much say in this, and you did what you thought was right under the circumstances.”

“What’s right about harboring a Rebel spy?”

Krennic smiles tiredly. “You’re hardly the first to have misguided affections.” Cassian frowns at Krennic’s face; the amused judgment, the disappointment.

“Misguided,” he echoes quietly.

When did Krennic turn? Did his persuasion change over the course of the Death Star’s development? Or was his alliance with the Rebellion from the beginning? It makes no sense. _He_ makes no sense.

The look Cassian must be giving brings a sigh to Krennic’s lips. “I don’t understand you, Moors,” he says. “Strange. I understand everyone.”

“I don’t understand you either.” But Cassian wants to. He wants to know the full extent of Krennic’s sabotage. What swayed him from the Empire? How long has he been hiding his true affiliation? How has he managed to not only survive but lead in the most impossible position?

Cassian wants to know everything about Orson Krennic. He wants to learn, and he wants to put the pieces together. Right now, Krennic is a fractured puzzle, a defeated man with a bloody knot on his head.

A thrill shivers through Cassian’s fingers. He feels angry, lost, and more excited than he can ever remember. Adrenaline tickles his fingertips and crawls up his spine. His chest is tight with need. Cassian is furious, frightened, and about to burst with sudden hope.

It is Cassian’s job to become a student of his targets. To obsess over them, to know them as intimately as they know themselves. Krennic always remained one step ahead, baiting Cassian deeper into his web. Cassian has wanted Krennic since the beginning. Recognizing this is shameful but not altogether unsurprising. Cassian's mission is immersive. Body, mind, soul; Cassian belongs to his mark until the job is done. Then he separates himself, clean as a surgeon's knife.

But there will be no separation from Orson Krennic. They are tethered more tightly together than ever. Cassian wants Krennic to know this. He wants Krennic to feel it.

It surprises Cassian when Krennic returns the gesture. Krennic responds with a huff and fingers bridged on Cassian’s cheek. “Moors.” Slow again, patient but frustrated. “You have this so wrong.”

“No, I don’t,” Cassian says; quiet, a little breathless. A flicker of understanding flashes in Krennic’s eyes.

Cassian kisses Krennic again before he can speak, fingers set on a breast bearing bars of Imperial rank. Krennic’s hands dig into his back. They are embracing, Cassian realizes. Holding each other more than kissing, breathing hard, hanging on.

"Tell me your real name,” Krennic says. Cassian would never, not even to other operatives. But this is different, this is...

“Cassian,” he says, speaking inches from where Krennic’s neck meets his uniform collar.

“Cassian.” The name is strange in Krennic’s exaggerated accent, too much 's.' A chuckle follows. “I have questions for you.”

“So do I,” Cassian says. He can’t stop his hands from shaking.

What does he want more, to touch or to ask? A safehouse will only hold so long on an Imperial stronghold planet. And what chance does Cassian have of escape with the director of the Death Star project in toe? His own absence must be known by now, as well as Krennic’s and the deaths of the two troopers.

But if this is it, what a way to go. Better than face down in the dirt, the way Cassian always expected to die. His death for the knowledge that the planet killer is compromised? Cassian will take this deal in a heartbeat.

*The End*


End file.
